


I Need You There

by peachesanddenim



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:00:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22348339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachesanddenim/pseuds/peachesanddenim
Summary: Two years after the war, Teddy Lupin has yet another loved one torn away from him. With Andromeda gone, he has but one rather pitiful and hardly living relative and a well-meaning godfather riddled in scars.Both suddenly burdened by fatherhood, Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter must test out the new and tentative peace of a world after their war, together.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 23
Kudos: 106





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!!! I've been working on this fic for almost a year and it's still not anywhere near finished! However, I wanted to post a chapter and test the waters! If everyone likes it, fuck it, I'll add more and then finish this bitch
> 
> I've definitely grown out of the whole 'kid-fic' troupe, but I've had this idea tumbling around in my head for years, and though it's far from an original concept, I wanted to have my own go at it. Besides, I really love Teddy as a character and I dont really think he gets enough love! 
> 
> Welp, hope you enjoy :)
> 
> XO- Audge
> 
> P.S.: I dont fucking own Harry Potter I wish I did cause fuck JK no cap

The funeral service had been beautiful. 

It started first in an ancient, limestone cathedral hidden away from the muggle world in a forest just outside of Bristol. The pews had been heavy with attendance. The grey and watery light, pebbled rainbow by the stained-glass beyond the black casket, painted somber faces with jades and violets. White and brown flowers had hung from every flat surface. 

It ends now, at a quiet, ageless graveyard, where the dirt is a colorless black and the tombstones are all a blinding, bone white. The casket has since been lowered into its plot, the dirt securely returned to its rightful place. They who have been buried made one with the Earth as all must be. Placed gently beside their partner, as close as a kiss. A yard over from their child, all three of them too quickly put beneath the ground. 

It is Draco Malfoy’s twentieth funeral.

_Andromeda Druella Tonks_  
_November 8, 1951-September 29, 2000_  
_Homo sum humani a me nihil alienum puto._

“I am a human being, so nothing human is strange to me.” Draco whispers, his breath slipping from his mouth in a white phantom, ghosting towards the gravestone as though to bless it with the translation. “Wiser words could not have been chosen to grace your grandmother’s tomb.” 

Draco hikes his cousin further up his hip, and encourages the boy with two gentle fingers on his chin to meet his eyes. Edward’s appearance conveys his mood, his eyes heavily-lidded and a deep black, his hair limp and grey. He’s confused, somber. 

“Grand’Mere no come back.” Edward says in return, and Draco nods. 

No, indeed. Andromeda is not coming back. Draco’s eyes flit once more to his Aunt’s tombstone, and he feels the familiar jackals of grief nip impatiently at his heels. 

He hadn’t known Andromeda for long, just since the war, when he had nowhere else to turn to. With the Manor’s foreclosure and his parents mutual life-sentence in Azkaban, she’d been his only kin and only willing refuge. These last two years of company with Andromeda has taught Draco more than twenty with his mother and father ever did. It hurts all the more profoundly to realize this. 

“That’s right, Edward. I won’t lie to you.” Draco sighs, adjusting the downy, white blanket he’d thrown around the toddler before they’d apparated from the church. The boy’s cheeks are getting red from the approaching frigidity in the air. 

“Well, she’s not entirely gone, now is she?” 

Draco stops his finnicky ministrations, and scowls. He’d sworn they were the only ones still left. He’d waited patiently until the Weasleys and everyone else had paid their respects. Now the bloody worst of them all is here. 

“Harry!” Edward exclaims, wiggling in Draco’s hold until he is forced to set him down, rolling up the blanket at once to keep it from the freezing, black muck. Draco almost laughs at the sight of it. He wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what his insides look like. 

Finally, Draco swallows his pride and brings his eyes up from the ground to settle instead on Harry Potter. He’s dressed smartly in a muggle suit and a black dress robe. His hair is even tamed beneath a genderless, grey headband. He picks Edward up with a smile that rivals the tenacity of the sun, though it hides behind the clouds today. Just as the smile doesn’t reach Potter’s eyes. 

“Teddy, Andromeda will always be with you. Here.” Potter tells him gently, pressing a long, spindly finger against Edward’s chest. Draco rolls his eyes. 

“In my heart?” Edward asks in a small, wet voice, and Potter nods his head and ruffles the boy’s hair. As soon as Potter’s hand slips away, Teddy’s grey waves melt into a recognizable, raven mess.

“Yes, Edward.” Draco relents, stepping around Andromeda’s grave. The closer he gets, the more vibrant the green of Potter’s eyes become. They always look so much greener than they are on days like this, when the sky promises a proper storm.   
Edward says nothing else, just lays his heavy head on Potter’s shoulder. Draco knows he’ll be asleep within the minute. He and Potter stare at Andromeda’s grave as they wait, the silence growing tenser by the second. 

“How are we going to do this, Malfoy?” Potter whispers, arms tightening around the slumbering, little boy. Draco pinches the bridge of his nose, and heaves a great sigh. Leave it to Potter to skip the niceties, even here on the same day as his Aunt’s funeral. 

“I don’t know, Potter. You’re his godfather. You could take him from me permanently if you wished, and no one would fault you.” Draco tries and fails to conceal the crack in his voice. There’s nothing Draco wouldn’t do to keep Edward Lupin in his life, and the fear of losing him is all-encompassing. Though as used to that feeling as he is. 

Potter makes a disapproving noise. 

“I wouldn’t do that to you, Malfoy. The two of you are blood, as meaningless as that is these days.” Potter promises, stepping in front of Malfoy to meet his eyes. There’s a conviction in his gaze, and already the heavy cloak of fatherhood seems to have lipped over his shoulders like a gargoyle. Draco feels one of his own. 

“Thank you.” Draco relents.

“I’ve got a pushchair in my bag, why don’t we go to a cafe? Speak of it there.” Draco catches Potter's eyes again, and this time there’s an earnest defeat about them. 

Draco’s answer comes in way of another sigh, defeat of his own in place now. No, Draco supposes, there would be nothing wrong with a simple cup of tea with Harry Potter. 

Anything for Edward Lupin. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!!! Yall liked the first chapter soooooo, heres the second chapter, yknow, as a treat for being so supportive;)
> 
> Lol nah nah, for real, thanks you guys for wanting to hear more, so, here u go!!!! 
> 
> Also, content warning: homelessness I suppose, and inner bashing of one's self, I guess? Draco rags on himself a lot
> 
> Also, if any of my French is wrong, just kill me :)

The café Potter apparated them to is the exact opposite of the surroundings of that morning. It is as intimate and crowded as the graveyard had been open and empty. The lights and temperature warm and a tangible orange-yellow, whereas outside it had been bleak and grey.

“Malfoy, how do you take it?” 

Draco startles, tearing his eyes away from the floating lamp above to Potter, and then the waitress, both whom are blinking impatiently at him.

“I'll have an earl grey with a teaspoon of honey, please.” Draco tells the waitress softly, who walks away slowly in a bit of a daze, her smile lopsided. It’s the kind of effect Potter’s always had on people.  
Quite a bit different than the scathing looks and muttered curses that Draco inspires nowadays.

“He can sleep through anything, aye?” Harry hums awkwardly, jutting his thumb in the pushchair’s direction, a still slumbering Edward inside it. Draco huffs a humorless laugh and buries his hands deep into his robe pockets. 

“Indeed he can.” 

The swift silence that follows is weighted, things that have gone unspoken for so long as effective as ballasts. Draco and Potter maintain eye contact, however, and the former wonders where they should even start. 

“Hermione says I need to tie up loose ends. Talk about things. The war, school, you.” Potter spits out suddenly, pinning Draco to his seat with a somewhat frenzied gaze. Harry waits, taut like a wand arm, and Draco finally looks away. 

“Andromeda lectured me similarly.” He supplies, using every muscle and bone in his body to act like an adult. To grow. To talk. Its incredibly hard; being conniving and mean and feral has always come so naturally to Draco. It's easy. Easier than facing the reality.

Now, Andromeda is dead and Draco has no one but Edward. The least he can do is take his Aunt’s advice. After all, his gratitude for her in life hadn’t the time to be revealed. 

“Well, maybe we should. Talk. About everything.” Potter stumbles through the sentence, beads of sweat spotting his forehead. He keeps looking over his shoulder, and if not that, towards the door. It makes him look batty. 

But they’re all a little batty now, arent they? 

“As much as I would rather claw my own eyes out, we do share custody of a small child. I certainly don’t expect us to shotgun a wedding, so talking out nearly ten years of animosity is reasonable.” Draco sighs, attempting in his own way to liven up the heady and electrifying atmosphere that had risen up between them. 

Feeling a bit victorious when Potter cracks a crooked smile, Draco cannot help the breathy laugh that leaves him. He sucks it right back in, shaken, his cheeks no doubt blooming an acute magenta. This, however, only causes Potter’s smile to grow until he, too, is laughing. 

The two of them, reeling from an unexpected death that is one of seemingly hundreds and the sudden burden of fatherhood, beaten down by years of war, laugh. 

Draco cannot remember a time he’s laughed like this, head thrown back, ribs aching, lungs fluttering. It’s like a drug. He’s immediately addicted. 

The strange moment comes to an end when the waitress returns, two large mugs of tea floating just behind her. With a practiced and thoughtless flick of her wand, the mugs ease gently onto the warped wooden tabletop. Draco whips his hands from his pockets at once and wraps his bony fingers around the green porcelain. 

“I don’t even know where to start.” Potter unknowingly echoes after a hearty chug of his tea. It smells lemony, and Draco rolls his eyes. Of course Harry Potter would like lemony tea. 

“I don’t think this is the kind of place to talk about…that. Custody arrangements, yes, the rest of it, perhaps not.” Draco points out, alighting at the subtle hints of orange in his Earl Grey. The right and only kind of citrus that belongs in tea. 

“Fair enough, where are you staying?” Potter asks, foraging for a piece of parchment and a quill, which he finds, though as haphazard and crumpled as they are. It reminds Draco glaringly of Rubeus Hagrid.

“Andromeda's cabin, until the legalities play out. I doubt highly that I’m in her will at all, much less in line for the house.” Draco admits darkly. He will be homeless by the end of the month. 

Potter makes a contemplative face, almost a facsimile of a peaceful expression and it’s strange to see. As though Draco shouldn’t be allowed. He doesn’t recall a single instance in which he’s seen Harry Potter looking peaceful. 

“I live in Grimmauld Place, which you technically have claim to. There’s plenty of rooms, and besides, having a Black in the house might shut Walburga up for once.” Potter points out in a rush, scribbling something on his parchment and allowing at last a cinched brow to disrupt his eerily placid face. 

“Are you offering me a place to live? Why would I ever live with you?” Draco spits before his mind can catch up with his mouth. Potter closes his eyes and the tendons move under the dark skin of his hand. Draco realizes he’s doing exactly that which Draco failed to do. Calming himself down. 

“Do you really have any other options, Malfoy? If so, pray tell.” His question is still sharp, but its certainly more polite than what Draco would’ve said, evidently. 

He takes a breath, and remembers Andromeda. He remembers Edward. 

“I-,” The apology makes Draco's tongue thick. “ _Je suis désolé.”_

“What?” Potter asks, but Draco is already barreling on. 

“No, I don’t have any other options. A landlord would sooner rent out to a slug than a former Death Eater.” Draco admits in a rush, trying and failing to not be so utterly mortified. 

Tea and custody arrangements Draco can navigate, talking about the tailspin of his life with the savor of the wizarding world and former archenemy- he’d rather choke. But, he’s doing it, by Salazar, he is doing it. 

“You can’t blame them, really.” Potter says gently, eyes as soft as his words. They look like The Great Lake's depths during a summer day. Draco knows Potter is right, he really can’t blame them. Draco dug his own grave and he’ll lay in it forever. 

“Moving on.” Draco says stiffly, closing the subject with a flick of his hand. “What’s your schedule?”   
Potter nods succinctly and scribbles yet another thing on his parchment, avoiding eye contact. Draco is infinitely grateful for it. 

“I work at Ollivander's during the week from seven to four, off on weekends. I can watch Teddy as long as needed after I get off work, and the weekends, of course.” Potter tells him, and Draco wonders when it was that Potter got into wand making. Draco could have sworn he was an Auror. 

“I make potions for people on commission currently, so I work from home. I can watch Te- Edward during the day.” Draco scowls at Potter for putting that fowl nickname in his mouth. He looks at Edward, however, fond as he is, and startles at his own eyes mirrored back at him. “Well, good morning, _petit_.” 

“You’re speaking French.” Potter announces triumphantly, and Draco rolls his eyes. 

“Well done, Potter, would you like a prize?” Draco grows strangely warm at the sight of Potter’s answering smirk. 

“Where?” Edward asks loudly, making his presence known now that he’s been found out. He resembles Draco almost spot on. It makes Draco terribly uncomfortable when he does that. The boy doesn't know what it means to be a Malfoy.

“We’re getting tea, Teddy. Would you like some?” Potter asks the toddler. The boy blinks owlishly, and as natural as breathing his skin becomes slightly darker and his hair grows untamed and black. He looks like some bastardized version of a Potter-Malfoy child, or a Black. Draco goes decidedly with the latter. 

“ _Chocolat chaud?_ ” He says excitedly, looking at Draco expectantly. Well, its not as though he’ll be sleeping well tonight after such a nap, anyway. 

“Hot chocolate for _mon préféré_.” Draco assures, looking pointedly at Potter, who is watching the exchange with an unknown expression. 

“All this time I thought it was baby talk, but you’ve been teaching him French?” Potter exclaims, a dazzling smile directed so brazenly at Draco that the Slytherin becomes very warm again for no good reason. 

“It’s a very useful language to learn.” Draco mutters, before finishing the dregs of his tea. “Now, would you please get our ward a hot chocolate?”

\--


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oop, another one, I'm gonna post a chapter a day until I run out and then I'm gonna finish this hoe :D 
> 
> XO- Audge

A month after Andromeda’s funeral, Draco gets a letter.

The owl comes almost as soon as Draco wakes up, and he blinks at it in shock, his mug of coffee half way to his mouth. 

Dread leaks under his skin and weakens his bones, and the strength it takes to even get up and move to the window is fragile. 

The owl is a deep, regal black with large opalescent eyes that lack in pupils. It's blind. 

Draco removes the letter from the owl's outstretched leg. The envelope is thick, and sealed with a messy display of red and gold wax. Draco's name is written on it in choppy, green ink. 

It seems not to have come from the Ministry, then. Draco looks over his shoulder, thinking of Edward still sleeping in his bed, and allows himself to imagine a world where they never have to leave this place. 

Draco turns back to the letter, and rips it open. 

_Malfoy,_

_I thought I’d write and tell you that the cabin is exactly what you got in Andromeda’s will. I pulled a couple of strings (I badgered Hermione until she just gave me the file) and I reckoned a letter from me would be more polite than anything the Ministry would send you._

_Anyway, Andromeda scribbled something about Teddy having somewhere to grow up and you being the perfect person to look after the place. Teddy got almost everything else. Little boy is almost as rich as I am, now._

_You don’t have to worry about being homeless anymore, as though I would have let it go that far._   
_Is it alright if I come by today after work? I wanted to have a proper dinner with Teddy before the week starts._

_And, perhaps, we could talk about those things we said we should talk about?_   
_Any roads, make sure to give Tiresias a treat or else he won’t ever leave._

_-Harry Potter_

Malfoy grips the parchment and rereads the letter twice more before it all sinks in. 

He doesn’t have to leave. He can live here as long as he wants. This kind of security, this relief, its foreign to Draco and he feels suddenly as though he is an oiled duck. Gratitude and self-loathing toil in him like boiling water and he clutches the letter so tightly it collapses into veiny folds.

One less thing to worry about, certainly. One less thing to think over when he stares up at the ceiling numbly every night avoiding what he sees when his eyes are closed.

Leave it to Potter. Merlin forbid the other man ever mind his business, much less his manners. How far did his meddling go? Is Draco allowed this place because of the Savior’s influence? Because if that is indeed the case, Draco will skin Potter alive, succinctly and guiltlessly.

There is one more thing to worry about, however, and that’s Potter burgeoning insistence on making some kind of peace between them. Can they not just co-parent separately like every other couple of wizards who happen to share spawn but can’t stand the sight of each other? 

No, because this is Harry Potter, who has a rather terrifying, war-ridden stubbornness and a radiant, inescapable light about him that has never failed to draw Draco in like a moth to flame. 

“Monlutin?” 

Draco jumps, the letter fluttering from his hands back onto the kitchen counter. His sudden movement startles the blind owl, who takes flight and immediately flies into the overhead light, sending the minuscule chandelier swinging.

The Slytherin turns around with a scowl, finger already jutting out to shake, but he comes up short.   
Edward is blinking up at him, looking incredibly small in a battered, old shirt of Nymphadora's. His cheeks are ruddy with tears and his nose is crusted shut with bogies. 

Draco’s heart clenches and his finger wilts, as does his knees as he comes to eye level with the boy. His hands flutter around Edward nervously, before settling heavily on the toddler’s shoulders. The boy is sleep warm, and Draco loves him.

“What’s wrong, monloup?” Draco breathes, wiping the child’s tears away with the hem of his own ragged pajama shirt. He hates seeing Edward in pain more than most everything Draco dislikes, which to be fair is a notably long list.

Simply put, this little boy is the least deserving of his personal, shitty repercussions of the war. Draco isn’t so daft as to not notice the parallel his cousin shares with Harry Potter. Thanks to the latter, however, Edward will never feel such a pressure, suffer such manipulations. Potter died so they could be free. So Edward could be an orphan and nothing more, until, of course, Edward decides just exactly who he is meant to be.

Or something as ridiculous and simpering as that.

The boy sniffles, and clutches his stuffed niffler closer to his chest. He’s himself, his honey curls catching the swinging light, and Remus' eyes watch the blasted, blinded owl fly haphazardly above them. Draco growls, and stands back up. 

He grabs a handful of stale owl treats from their dish on the windowsill, and throws them at the screeching thing. 

“I liked his other one better.” Draco tells the owl, before it scoops the treats out of the air and suddenly, miraculously, seems to know where it’s at, and consequentially flies out the window.

Draco squats back down to his ward, who seems to have mustered up the courage to tell him what’s the matter. 

“I had a nightmare.” The boy’s lip trembles rapidly, and finally he bursts into tears. Draco gathers the boy into his arms, and rises to rock the child back and forth. 

Nightmares are something Draco, too, is familiar with. How could he not be, with the life he’s had? But Edward is two years old, and he’s lost more than any one ever should. No child should suffer from terror, much less in sleep where they cannot escape it.

Draco sighs, and his hand cradles the boy’s head as he’d done when Edward was just an infant. 

Did Potter have nightmares? Surely he does. With the things he’s seen, with the way Voldemort would at times collapse and clutch at his skull exactly where Draco memorized Potter’s scar to be on his own head. In that case, has Potter done exactly what Draco is doing now? Hold Edward in his arms and tell him lies, that they’d fade away one day. That it’d get easier. That he’d sleep in peace again one day. 

Maybe for Potter, they aren’t lies.   
\--


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know i said i'd post a chapter everyday, but yesterday was like...not a good day for me, while also being a really great day?? i was distracted, basically, so, here we go! 
> 
> Again, Draco rags on himself really hard, so tw: self-hatred? and all that comes with it? I try to be good about tagging warnings, if i miss something that makes you uncomfortable in anyway or you think should be tagged, please let me know pl z 
> 
> xoxo 
> 
> audge

\--

Draco watches the candles flicker and illustrate shadowy shapes on the wall. He’s nervous, shaking and burning like the candle's little flame.

“Okay?” Edward asks him, hands pressed seriously into the floor where he is playing with blocks at Draco's feet. Draco chuckles mirthlessly, and clutches his arms tighter around his middle.

No, he is not ‘okay'. He’s absolutely terrified. Malfoys don’t do this, he was never taught to open up, to speak of the torture he faces in head, to apologize. Chins were to be high, jaws set, eyes narrowed, to be a man, be merciless; to show no weakness. Besides, it’s the last thing he deserves. He knows telling Potter- not just anyone- every nuance of the hell he’s lived, well- he’d feel better.

And does he deserve that kind of redemption? Hasn’t he already depleted his reserve of second chances? Especially with the man who saved his life many, many times in a house given to him by a dead woman who barely knew him and yet always held such a faith in him. To apologize to Harry Potter, the man who always, somehow, made Draco feel like something, something more, something meaningful and alive.

“No, poppet, I’m not okay. Your godfather and I have very important things to discuss.” Draco chatters, eyes flickering to the table where the three of them had eaten dinner. Indian, that Harry bought and Draco had put on Andromeda’s fine, black and gold china. Dinner had been simple, consisted of everyday small talk over the scratching of silver- which anyone can handle, even Draco and is once loathed enemy.

However, what has Draco so off his equilibrium and suffering from some sort of panic beyond the obvious, was the warm, almost ancient yellow light of the chandelier that shone on Potter as they ate. The way it brought out the subtle red in Potter's raven curls made sweat bead in the small of Draco's back. Draco’s throat tightened as the shine melted into Potter’s green eyes and turned them the color of daffodils. The Slytherin's cheeks grew almost as warm as Potter’s russet skin turning the colors of sunset in the light.

Certainly, surely, Draco has always felt an unmistakable pull to the other man, even before he’d met the bastard. From what he’d hear slithering out of his father’s mouth, to the extravagant illustrations of him in storybooks Draco stole away, Potter has always been present in his life. It’s practically in any wizard's childhood itinerary, to go through a healthy if obsessive fascination with The Boy Who Lived. Although, whether it be out of admiration, envy, complete loathing, and the presently and confusedly unlabeled, Draco supposes his Potter phase never ended.

Draco has always simply acquainted it to his celebrity, his almost tangible power, his talent; glorified and romanticized as it is. How could one not be drawn to that? Jealous of that? Hate that? Inevitably are drawn to that time and time again?

Or perhaps, that’s just Draco. Because as certain as the light, joy, and love in Potter that not even Draco denies is there, all its opposites and antithesis lie in Draco like sleeping beasts. Maybe, Draco seems to think he needs Potter’s light to wake them up, shoo them off. But, hate is what Draco was taught, hate is power. Pride, survival, hate; Malfoys were made of these things and not much else.

So why is he bothering? Why not call it a night and pull his lips into a sneer, summon that icy blank glare he’d learned from his father, and spit his usual poison at Potter? Curdle him where he stands?

“Uh-oh!” Edward giggles, grabbing a fallen block and setting it back in its place. He looks up at Draco with an innocent gleam to his eye and smiles when he sees his cousin is looking. “See? Okay.” He reiterates, patting the block in its little formation.

Oh yes.

Edward is why Draco is bothering. Why he’s biting his forked and spitting tongue, why he’s fighting back the beasts in his chest and snake in his head. Why, even, Draco is working so incredibly hard everyday to become the kind of person Edward deserves.

The kind of person Draco never had.

“Sorry about that, some of Teddy’s curry traveled into my ear somehow.” Potter says as he reenters from the bathroom, wagging a finger at his godson and unknowingly shattering Draco’s swift moment of contemplation.

“Yes, well, he seems to have taken up Weasley’s table side manners.” Draco replies quietly, face pinching, hands in fists. “Tea?” he asks in a desperate attempt to bide more time.

“Yeah, thank you.” Potter hums, already advancing on Edward, who bounces and squeals into his arms, and then Draco is in the kitchen and they’re out of his sight, and he can’t breathe.

Draco shakes his head. It’s all for Edward. Do it for Edward.

Do it for the one thing that you will never fuck up, he thinks, closing off the terror and anxieties away beyond his beasts and troubles, because he will not allow fear to become a constant companion in his cousin’s life like it had been for his own. If Draco can conquer it, this, everything he’s run away from, so can Edward.

The blond makes two cups of tea, one with lemon and one without, and fills a sippy cup with chilled cider, the easy routine of it managing to slow his heart rate to something more manageable. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and allows himself for once to start a journey he never thought he’d have the courage to take.

To be better for Edward, he has to be better for himself. He remembers Andromeda pouting and providing him some tidbit about ‘accepting that you need help is the first and best step’. He laughs ironically.

The apple tumbles further and further from the Malfoy family tree it seems, the longer he’s away from it.

With that, Draco turns on his heel and almost marches into the living room.

He hovers in the doorway however, arrested at once by the sight before him. Despite the low, white lamp light Potter and Edward are almost dipped entirely in shadow. Potter is swaying back and forth to some silent tune, and Edward sleeps soundly again against his chest, small hand bunched and bustled against Potter’s neck.

“I know you aren’t awake, Teddy. Honestly, it might be the only reason I’m saying this out loud, but-,” Draco watches Potter struggle, all whilst maintaining his rocking. Draco can tell how tense he is, even beneath the dreadful muggle polo and scratchy blue pants. “I thought I always knew, what my mother must have felt that night.”

His voice is almost so quiet and soft now that Draco must strain to hear.

“I know what love is, of course I do, but you. Teddy, I-, well, because of you I feel as though I know what kind of person she must’ve been, if she felt like this.” Potter drags in a wet breath, and Draco sighs as Potter holds the boy just that much tighter to his chest and buries a kiss in the boy's curls. “And my mother, she would’ve forgiven Malfoy.”

Draco allows this statement to brand his bones with steel and soften his frigid, blackened heart.

“Sorry to leave you waiting, I’m sure you’re not used to it.” Draco chuckles, coming into the room as though he’d never spied on one of the most intimate moments he’s ever seen, much less one with Harry Potter involved. Besides, he doubts it’ll be the last one of the night.

Potter blinks at him hurriedly, and Draco pretends not to notice the tears in them. Give Potter a chance to retain his dignity.

“Er, I’ll put Teds to bed.” He huffs, quickly stomping off and Draco sighs. He doesn’t have the time for Harry to take his, he’s only got the adrenaline for now.

“Salazar help me.” Draco grumbles, setting down the tea and now useless sippy-cup on the coffee table. He sinks into the couch, allowing himself to close his eyes and wonder if the infamous Lily Evans would have forgiven him indeed.

“Out like a light, that one. How does he do it?” Potter comes back with his usual, dazzling smile, and Draco looks at him steadfastly. Potter stumbles and his smile falters. “What’s wrong?”

“This conversation isn’t going to be easy, you know, you can stop acting like it will be.” Draco tells him, wringing his hands as they shake. Potter nods and his shoulders fall and suddenly the man in front of Draco is one he recognizes.

Potter is broken.

His eyes go glassy, his face crumples, and a twitch starts in his thumb.

“You’re right.” Potter admits, slumping into a chair beside the couch, his socked feet coming up to fold beneath his arse. It’s an almost childish position and Draco finds himself increasingly endeared to the Gryffindor because of it.

Fine, endearment is better than bone-chilling terror.

“I suppose I should start with an apology.” Draco stares pointedly at his hands and nowhere else, blushing at their trembling. “You know better than most how hard this is for me, so let me just- get on with it, yeah?”

“Right.” Potter says shortly, and Draco spares him a habitual glance. Potter is staring at him almost in shock, his tea now in his grasp, the cup looking small in his long, seeker hands. Draco looks away again. No, meeting Potter’s eyes in this moment is impossible.

So, he barrels on.

“I hardly know how to apologize. Andromeda did help, of course, or else I’d be rotting away in a fucking cell with my parents by now. This is to say, I am sorry.” Draco closes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath. For Edward. “I make no excuses. I was a shitey little twat, I know that now. I made all the wrong choices, and I know now that they were wrong. I’ve hurt so, so many people, you and your family most of all, and I…well, I have no excuse. _Je suis désolé_.”

Silence follows his monologue like a guillotine, sharp and swift, leaving a tense shock in the air. Draco can no longer see his hands as his vision swims with hot mortified tears. His face and ears and body burn with shame and embarrassment and adrenaline.

“Draco. Look at me.” Draco would have looked up regardless at Potter calling him by his given name.

Potter’s cheeks gleam strangely and his eyes glimmer. He looks as though something about him has fundamentally changed all at once, and fuck if Draco doesn’t know exactly how that feels.

“I never thought, I would have never even imagined you apologizing to me, much less…this.” Potter’s eyes widen and he works his fingers into his curly shock of hair. “The fact that you bothered, that you seem to truly care, that you’ve made this kind of effort, its quite possibly the craziest fucking thing that’s ever happened to me and I’m Harry Potter.”

Draco blinks at Potter, his heart pumping loudly in his ears, and at last those blasted tears fall and Potter jumps back at them. Draco wipes them away gracelessly, feeling like an idiot. He’s so weak. Always has been.

“Malfoy, I will never say that the things you did are okay. But, I know a thing or two about not having control over your own destiny.” Potter begins hoarsely, and he’s staring Draco down as though if he looks away he’ll lose all his nerve. “I’d be a bullock not to understand that you weren’t entirely in control of your actions. I saw it, actually. You know.” Potter gestures to his scar.

Draco scans the scar as though it will fill in the blank. It’s as it’s always been, a stark pale pink network of jagged tails against the red brown of his forehead. A lightning bolt, its root beyond his hairline, its end running through his left eyebrow. It tells him nothing besides how breathtaking it is. How impossible.

“Another time, perhaps.” Potter sighs, waving his hand and standing. He comes to sit beside Draco, who of course scoots further away; he certainly cannot handle any touching right now. If Potter touches him Draco is sure he’ll combust.

Potter seems to catch on to Draco’s hesitation and instead sets his hands on his knees.

“I do have one question I’d like to ask.” Potter eyes flick from each of Draco’s and back, the electric green of them as shocking as ever against his dark skin. Draco dreads whatever he’ll ask, of course, but he’s gotten this bloody far.

“Right.” Draco swallows, because answering a question is the least of what he can do.

“Why did you say it wasn’t me?” Potter asks breathlessly, and Draco takes a breath. He looks away, and schools himself. Enough of the hot tears, of the trembling. He’s twenty years old, a grown man. He can’t just go crying and blubbering over his mistakes forever. In front of Potter, no less.

This question. It’s one he wagered Potter would ask eventually. It’s a question Draco often pondered over himself. One he regretted for a long time, when that, that beast, when Fenrir-

“I wanted you to win.” Draco finally answers, looking back at Potter. Potter’s brows furrow and he nods to himself.

“Why?” he asks softly, almost as if he doesn’t expect Draco to answer.

Should Draco tell him? Should he unlock the doors to the sea of memories he so resolutely keeps hidden away? What always seems to slither out to dance freely behind his eyelids when he falls asleep?

No. Not yet, at least. Not for a very long time.

“Another time, perhaps.” Draco echoes, and the two of them smile quaintly, before slipping into a comfortable, if heavy silence.

It’s simply the tip of the iceberg, so to speak, but Draco no longer feels as though he is going to melt. Nor does he still wish for the ground to open up beneath him and swallow him hole.

He does feel a smidgen better than before, relieved in a way he still doesn’t think he quite deserves, but it’s a start.

He thinks Andromeda would be proud of him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!!! I know it's been a while and I know this chapter is S H O R T but I've got a lot of stuff going on, my laptop broke (like I havent already written all of this on my phone but I'd use it to edit) and I kinda want to die most of the time BUT writing makes me feel Better damnit so heres what I got!!!! 
> 
> Xoxo- audge

-

  
The next time Draco sees Harry is about three weeks later, at an intimate, sunny park in East London. He’s meeting him here with Edward; it's the toddler's first weekend alone with the Gryffindor since Andromeda died. Admittedly, Draco is looking forward to a childless home for the following days. He can finally get around to orders that call for rather dangerous ingredients and brewing techniques. Perhaps he’ll even make some time for himself, make a particularly strong sleeping potion and drift away for twelve blissful hours.

“Look, monlutin. Swing!” Edward calls over his shoulder, his hair as crisp a blue as the sky above them. He’s mid swing, speaking through cheerful giggles, and Draco says nothing as he pushes him back towards the heavens.

“I see the swing, Teddy.” He replies absentmindedly, looking around for Potter. Draco doesn’t particularly enjoy being in muggle areas without the accompaniment of at least one other wizard. It’s nothing to do with his past prejudice, though that lingers in his conscience like a stubborn tick, but rather his complete ignorance of anything non magical. Were a muggle to come up to him and attempt pleasant, morning time conversation he’d surely be lost. Left gaping like a very stupid fish.

Besides, where is that bloody man? It’s not as though Potter has anything exciting these days to keep him. And does he not live in the immediate vicinity, in Draco's great-grandmother's house for that matter? 

What business on Earth did any Blacks have living in the middle of muggle London? Draco has been to their grand, sprawling estates in Iran, and the thought of The Most Noble and Ancient House of Black living, comparatively, in the Borough of Islington seems glaringly hypocritical. 

Draco continues musing over his maternal family’s nonsensible intricacies whilst Teddy babbles on, far too energetic for seven in the morning, until at last he hears a faint apparation pop nearby. Draco’s head swivels round, growing frustrated with all the bloody vehicles and dull brown brick that floods his vision. 

“Oi! Draco!” 

He spins the other direction, and there, waving his hand and shaking small, green leaves from his trousers, is Potter. He’s smiling, jogging forward now, that raven hair billowing out behind him, and he desperately needs a haircut, the length and curl of it is rather ridiculous. Draco’s tongue becomes thick and immovable in his mouth. 

“Morning.” He manages, eyes flitting this way and that. He doesn’t dare make eye contact with the other man, the green would be arresting in the morning sun and Draco isn’t prepared for that sort of thing just yet. 

“Morning, Draco. Morning, Teddy!” Harry alights, grabbing the swing from the air and stopping Edward’s ascent abruptly. Teddy trills at the sensation, his laughter like so many bells. Draco hides a smile behind his gloved hand. 

“How is my favorite godson?” Potter grins, attempting to remove the toddler from the rubber constraints of the swing. He fumbles spectacularly, casting hopeless glances at Draco until he rolls his eyes and relents.

Stupid Potter, always too ahead of himself to slow down and think- Draco scolds himself; it’s not as though he’ll soon be receiving any trophies in foresight. Draco comes forward, gently pushes Potter out of the way, and eases Teddy’s legs slowly through their designated holes. Teddy smiles toothily at him, cheeks flushed from the cold, newly black curls leaking out from beneath his cap. Draco’s heart acts as though it’s been hit with a jelly-leg jinx and he reluctantly hands the baby to Harry. 

Harry seems to have been watching him, surely to take note on Draco’s extraction of his godson, but the gaze feels heavy. The transfer of the love of Draco’s life to his former archenemy feels elephantine. The warmth of Teddy beating between them makes Draco’s insides swoop and twist, and as soon as Harry has Teddy completely in arms Draco takes a hearty step back. His head feels clouded, his skin prickly; he’s beyond overwhelmed. 

“Malf- Draco.” Harry begins, looking down and tugging on Teddy’s little felt boots. “Have, have the two of you had breakfast?” He manages a glance up again, and this time Draco meets it. 

Now that he’s removed himself from Potter’s somewhat intoxicating personal space, it isn’t quite so hard. The sun does indeed brighten the green until they almost blend in with the white of his eyes, but Draco has since prepared for this. After all, there was a time when Draco’s entire life was devoted to loathing the man in front of him; in fact, he can see quite clearly the jutted crook of Potter’s nose, crested with a silvery scar, all in due to Draco’s foot. This is to say, he certainly should not be all at once struck incoherent by that very same, loathed person. 

“No, we haven’t, I meant to tell you. Teddy should be hungry now.” Draco relents, shoving his hands into his robes, one of which wraps around the comforting weight of his wand. 

Harry nods, mouth crumpling a bit in thought. He hikes Teddy further up his hip, grunting a bit because Teddy is getting rather heavy and growing much too fast. Draco moves forward to adjust his little, green cap but thinks better of it. He’s fine, Draco is simply clucky when he’s nervous. 

“Well, would you like to come back to mine for tea? I can make toast.” Harry offers, and Draco must admit he is insanely curious to see Grimmauld Place. It is, to say the very least, a place of legend, and now it’s Harry Potter’s home, as well. This is where Teddy will be staying half the time, and Draco would be much more comfortable knowing just exactly what’s safe about it and what, inevitably, is not. 

“I- yes. I’ll come. Do you have Earl Grey?"

\--


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooooooh!!!!!! Shit. Is. Getting. Real. 
> 
> Dont worry, I ain't rushing this shit, it's all according to plan ;)
> 
> Tw: torture, implied non con (not explicit) and panic attacks 
> 
> Xoxo- Audge

“Here we are. Gimme a moment, yeah?” Harry hums, handing Teddy off to Draco without preamble. Draco takes the boy, confused, still looking at the  flat-faced muggle buildings and very much not seeing a Number Twelve.

“The Blacks were utter plonkers. None of this makes any rightful sense.” Draco huffs, crinkling his nose when Teddy grabs it. He manages to get a finger into one of Draco’s nostrils before the both of them are distracted.

Betwixt the two flats eleven and thirteen, Number Twelve blossoms up between them with a heady smell of magic and no small amount of creaky grandeur. Draco gapes at it, not only because it’s as ingenious and extraordinary as it is impractical, it seems rather elegant. The front garden is alive with both magical and non-magical plant life, with what smells like jasmine crawling it’s way up the front facing. Potter grins at it, and hops forward to swing open the polished, wrought-iron gate.

“Trust me, it didn't look like this. I spent all my time after the war refurbishing the place.” Harry chuckles, sounding almost contrite. As if he should be ashamed by it. Draco balks at him, and sets Teddy down to waddle into lush, emerald grass. He does so gently, bless him, at once finding a patch of silvery flowers and smelling them.

“It’s. Well, it’s very nice.” Draco says with a small smile, hoping to soften his tangled and somewhat lacking response. Harry beams at him, as though he’d given him a seven foot long essay on the new and improved wonder of Grimmauld Place. Draco rolls his eyes at the skinny man and gestures to the front door, which is of course painted a fiery, Gryffindor red.

“Tea?” he asks, a tad desperately. Harry springs to action, always so quick and spry, and opens the door with no small amount of pride.

“Teddy, come in for toast!” he calls, and the little boy does so, though not before plucking a couple of flowers on the way in. Draco walks after him, charming the lost flowers back to life. 

The inside of Grimmauld place is, simply put, warm. The walls are a muted amber, accented with white moldings, and the light fixtures are gold-varnished candelabras. The floor is a rustic kind of wood, run through with a plush, copper rug.

This is just seems to be the foyer.

“And you’ve done the whole place?” Draco asks, surveying a picture on the wall of the Weasleys… and Harry, it seems, the closer Draco looks at it. It’s a quaint family portrait, lovingly encased in a gold, looping frame. The picture-Harry yawns, propped up by Weaslette and Ronald, looking for all the world a sore thumb. All dark skin and black curls among a sea of freckled cream and burnished orange. Draco is infuriatingly endeared to the picture.

“Yeah. All seven floors. You know, if it weren’t for this place being so utterly unlivable before, I’d be dead by now.” Harry admits, a bit darkly. Draco catches his eye, and the two of them share a weighty glance. One that says more than any words can. If it weren’t for Edward, Draco would’ve been in the same boat. Draco finds himself heaving a sigh, encapsulated by the crooked and altogether alluring angles of Harry’s maturing face. When exactly had the man become something beautiful?

“I’m glad.” He finally replies, before catching Teddy struggling down the stairs. “ _Quoi_! Edward, what have I told you about stairs?”

Teddy startles, and looks around sheepishly. Harry, always the useless one, just giggles, leaving Draco to be the bad guy. Well, at least it’s a title he’s earned.

“Not?” Teddy supplies, smiling sweetly as he morphs into what can only be described as a little Malfoy. While it curdles him in public, the sight of it now does its purpose and softens Draco’s heart.

“You tricky little boy.” Draco sighs, grabbing the boy gently and attaching him to his hip. This place may look nice, but with a two year old to worry about, Draco isn’t wont to trust it just yet.

“He’s been here before, Draco, he was just trying to get to the kitchen. Smart little shite.” Harry chuckles, looming above them and running his fingers through Teddy’s white locks. He’s so close to them now, and Draco's breath becomes fast and labored. “Well, go on then, the kitchen is just down there.”

Draco swallows thickly and turns around to do as he’s told. As he reaches the kitchen, he realizes this floor also functions as the basement. The walls are dark grey stone, though covered in orange, and yellow tapestries that are due well to open the space up. He sets Teddy down, spotting a rather mortifying and ancient house elf that surely will keep the little boy from falling into the lit fireplace. He examines the tapestries, furrowing his brows as he sees the thread dance through the fabric. Little elephants in a line stomp gracefully around a border, and Draco is stunned to know that he’s never seen anything quite like it.

“It’s from Assam.”

Draco startles and glares at Harry’s sudden and rudely unannounced presence beside him.

“India. Have you been?” Draco asks him, treading lightly. He doesn’t know how much Harry knows about the Poters, and whether this is a sign that alludes to the positive, it’s certainly not Draco’s place to educate him if it isn’t.

“I have. This past spring. Luna was the one who told me about the Poters. She’d found a book while she was traveling, it seemed to be an old catalog for potion spices. Two and two together.” Harry says reverently. Draco is fascinated by the admission. Draco couldn’t believe Harry hadn’t known until then.

“You didn’t know about the Poters? They were one of the most powerful pure blood families of the far East. Though I suppose it’s been so long since they integrated here. It’s old knowledge.” Draco mumbles, turning around and finding himself face to face with that hideous house elf.

“Master Draco, the true heir, home at last.” It croaks, bowing so deeply that its mottled, grey ears and nose sweep the floor.

“Kreacher, I thought we were past this.” Harry groans, walking past them to finally, blessedly, put the kettle on. 

“True heir? What are you on about?” Draco demands of the elf, who seems rather weepy now.

“You are Kreacher’s Mistress Druella and Master Cygnus' grandson, you and Master Edward are the only Blacks alive today.” Kreacher grouses, coming forward and sinking his face into Draco's robes. It’s all rather abhorrent.

“Well, be that as it may, legally the house belongs to Potter.” Draco grumbles, gently prying the elf off. Kreacher mumbles something beneath his breath and stampers off. Draco looks up at Potter, who is holding back laughter.

“What can I say? Kreacher barely stands me. He’s probably creaming his knickers with two Blacks in the house.” The Gryffindor snorts, picking Teddy up when he tries to climb up his leg.

Draco wrinkles his nose at the foul insinuation, and stomps forward to take a seat at the small table.

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t have taken you for the house elf type. What with Granger’s activism. Vomit or something.” Draco spits, picking at a bubble of paint on the scratched surface.

“S.P.E.W. Or spew, I guess.” Harry corrects with good humor. Draco spares him a glance, and his insides grow warm and mangled. The sight of him, making tea with Teddy on his hip, one of the little boy’s hands tangled in the shock of Harry’s hair, is well, it's lovely.

Whoever would have guessed, Potter and him sharing a child. It makes Draco’s head spin whenever he thinks too long on it. Its dissimulating, its domestic, it’s almost traitorous.

It’s nice.

As Draco is caught up in the whirlwind of his mind, Potter finishes up with the tea and toast, and spells it all over to the table. It isn't until he sets Teddy in a chair and takes a seat of his own that Draco wakes back up in the moment.

“Can you believe all this?” he finds himself asking, pouring his cup and sneaking a glance at Potter. Harry seems to know what he means and he ticks his head in thought. His thick brows furrow and his lips purse. It makes him look older, wise. Draco wants to press his thumb into the cinch of Potter’s forehead and smooth it out. Smooth his face back into the unblemished doughtiness of youth, before everything became so confusing and they just hated each other. Before it began to hurt.

“Not exactly. I mean, you’ve been a big part of my life for almost a decade now. I think it would be strange not to have you around at all.” Potter shrugs, spooning sugar into a very small cup for Teddy. “Teddy is a better reason to stay in touch than most. This way we won’t kill each other.”

Draco blinks at Harry, then to their ward, who is taking his small cup of tea quite seriously, blowing on it and all. Draco supposes he’s right, it’ll be a decade the following year since their first steps into the Great Hall. He can’t recall a single day throughout those seven years where he didn’t see Harry Potter. Barring the past three years, Draco became rather accustomed to Potter’s presence. He does remember missing it, in those frigid, never ending days in the Manor. When Voldemort breathed acidly down his neck and Fenrir would stroke his flesh when no one was looking and reminded Draco that he was nothing, nothing but a failure, a slave to the Mark. That he was something as cold and slimy as that bloody snake.

Potter would’ve meant it was over, one way or another. Draco would’ve gotten one more lick of his warmth, that which thawed Draco better than any other.

“I couldn’t have done it. Never wanted to. Kill you, I mean.” Draco whispers, looking into the steaming amber of his earl grey that he no longer thinks he could stomach.

A warm, russet hand envelopes his bone white wrist. He looks up again, and Potter seems sorrowful and guilty.

“I know that, Draco. I think I’ve always known that.” He promises, giving Draco a reassuring squeeze.

“Kiss?”

Draco and Harry whip their heads in tandem to Teddy, who looks between them expectedly. “Kiss.” He says firmly, nodding his head.

Draco blushes furiously and when he looks to Potter, utterly mortified, so does he. The maroon flush is actually rather dashing, the stupid, gorgeous bastard.

Potter, seemingly unaware of his vice like grip on Draco’s wrist, stumbles through a denial. “N-no no, Teds, we don’t kiss. No kissing.”

“Like ‘Ne and Ro?” Teddy asks in a tiny voice, looking far too confused for such a young boy.

“Ne and Ro?” Draco exclaims incredulously, wrenching his hand from Harry's in his flaming embarrassment.

“Hermione and Ron!” Harry supplies uselessly, bringing his hand to his chest with a hurt expression.

Teddy begins to sniffle, his face growing ruddy and hair growing tightly curled and firetruck red. “Why no kiss? No love!” He screams, big, fat tears blooming down his face and Draco scrambles out of his chair. He tries to pick the boy up, tuck him into his chest, anything, but Teddy bloody kicks him away.

Harry huffs at him, and tries to do the same to no avail.

“What on Earth is it Teddy?” Draco asks, desperate to stop the fit. He hates, _abhors_ seeing him like this. In fact, it makes his ears ring and his body shake, his hands are in his hair, and his chest is heaving, and he can’t _breathe_.

Teddy’s screams become the throes of the dying, become Draco hiding in the Manor's attic and crying away his ability to speak, it becomes Luna Lovegood sobbing in his dungeon-

Someone is kissing him. Someone is pressing hard against his mouth with soft, plush lips and Draco’s eyes flutter open and he skids to a stop back into reality and _Harry Potter is kissing him_.

Draco opens his mouth in utter shock, and that does nothing but better slot their lips together. Harry’s lips are warm, and they’re softening, and Draco’s eyes grow closed again and he presses back. Something gentle happens, the urgency fades away, and Draco feels long, slender hands wander up his neck and to either side of his jaw. Draco’s hands take a journey of their own, and grab at Harry’s waist and bunch into his jumper like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered here. So he doesn’t float away, so he doesn’t dissolve into nothing.

The heat of their mouths is inexplicable. Harry’s lips fit between his own as if they belong there, and for a moment, everything fades away, even Teddy, as they share a moment that is inescapably profound.

“Kiss!”

Draco slowly brings their mouths apart, eyes still closed, hands still tangled in Potter’s jumper, and listens to the now happy chattering of his cousin. He feels a forehead press into his own, they share hot breath, before the heavy heat of Potter pulls away. Draco's hands open and close around nothing, until he musters up the courage to open his eyes.

Potter is staring at him with an unreadable expression. Draco feels the familiar flames of terror burning him alive, can almost smell the smoke. 

Harry opens his mouth, but Draco doesn't get the chance to hear what he says. 

He turns on his heel, and disapparates. 

\--


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahah... hi guys
> 
> I am so sorry about not posting, work got busy, and then some shit in my personal life went down and I had to just keep my head above water there for a hot minute. Then, because I was working at a movie theatre, I was basically let go due to this pandemic. But, with all this time on my hands guess what?? Content!! I'm gonna write whether I like it or fucking not perIOD
> 
> SO, here u go! 
> 
> XOXO- AUDGE
> 
> CW: self-hatred, internalized hatred, death

Draco watches his ceiling fan. It’s on it’s lowest setting, twirling round listlessly, not cooling but interrupting the otherwise stale, warm air in the room. 

He’s been laying on his bed for hours now, doing exactly this, his fingers running back and forth over his lips which still seem to burn. He’s surprised he’s not a pile of ashes by now, dirtying up his sweaty, emerald sheets. 

There’s guilt, too, for not saying goodbye to Edward, for not wiping away his tears and petting his hair back to its sandy waves. For not telling him how much Draco loves him. 

That’s what got Draco into this mess, isn’t it? Until now, love has always been a fickle, thoughtless thing. He loves his mother, furiously, but that is the kind of love that no one really remembers growing. It’s simply instinct, it's natural and it's effortless. He misses her terribly, and he often aches for her. Wondering how she fares in her cold and miserable cell in Azkaban. His father is another matter entirely. Draco knows Lucius loves him, in his own way. Draco loves him similarly, but resentment and shame color that now, in an aching black shimmer. 

Andromeda had been Draco's first taste of something different. She’d welcomed him into her home, he a barely emancipated war criminal, her still mourning for the husband and daughter that Draco's side of the war had ripped away from her. When it had all been so fresh, when she didn’t do her hair, and it hung unkept and greasy down to the small of her back. When her face had been wane and thin, her dark skin cracked and red from tears. When Draco wouldn't, couldn't speak, prone to flinching and sneakily, compulsively racking up the heating when the muggle air conditioner seemed too like the icy fingers of the Dark Lord. 

She’d looked so much like Bellatrix back then. Draco avoided her for weeks because of it. When he looked at Andromeda, all he could imagine was Bellatrix, pulling out his hair when he denied her something. Slapping him so hard he’d spat blood. Watching her carve into Granger’s skin and embedding the sounds of her screams into his bones. 

He’d come around, eventually. He’d walked in on her, very late in the night sometime that first month, in front of the living room fireplace. She’d been in a pair of muggle sweatpants and a Slytherin jumper, flipping through channels on the telly. The sight of it was so unlike anything he’d ever known. So unlike her sisters. 

“Joining me,  _ eshgham _ ?” she’d asked, the Persian endearment sparking softly off the tongue, sparing him an absentminded glance as if she hadn’t actually expected him to. His mother called him that, too, when no one was listening, and it had been enough, exactly that which he needed to hear. When he had, indeed, joined her, he remembers her looking pleased, relieved even, and she’d even ran her fingers through his hair and said, “You know, through all that Malfoy in you, you look so much like your mother.” 

Draco supposes he does. He’s got the pinched nose and pallid skin of the Parisian Malfoys, that is certain, but as he’d grown, his rounded eyes of childhood hooded over, and his lips filled out, and his brows went thicker. Traits of the Blacks, traits his father had tried so hard to wash out. To make his mother no longer proud of. After all, The Blacks were certainly, as the name alluded, not white. Being pure of blood only got you so far if you had colored skin. Malfoy’s grandfather had never been fond of Lucius’ choice in partner, Narcissa's pure and Rosier blood had been her only saving grace.

Andromeda taught him a lot of things about The Blacks, like how, before they'd immigrated to London, they'd been The Blakhitars, a wealthy, near royal family of a small, but influential wizarding village in present day Iran. She'd explained that for all his father's elitist, ignorant ideals, Malfoy could not escape that he came from Persian blood, that shone through the weak, inbred drivel of the Rosiers' and Malfoys'. Blood that belonged to people who fought for the respect they had, fought for their power against a world where being white of skin was as important, if not more so, than being pure of blood, and  _ can't you see the irony there, Draco, what you must accept with this knowledge that our family so readily threw away?  _ She’d taught him a lot about everything. Why he shouldn’t blame himself for taking the mark, for what he’d done in the war. She’d taught him why his behavior in school was aborrhent. She’d taught him tolerance, understanding, and forgiveness. To be loved, without toxicity and without expectations.

Draco’s heart shatters with missing her, wanting her at this moment, and he supposes he must have loved her, too. Really loved her, needed her, even. He misses the chocolate smell of her hair, and the way she would brush Teddy’s and tell him stories of his mother, he loved her, of course he loved her, and she’d loved him in return. Draco just cannot easily accept what it is to love and be loved in return with no ulterior motives, no fear, no obligation. 

Then, there was Teddy. He’d avoided him, too, at first. When he was just a warbling, red little thing, that cried and shat, cried some more, and looked at him through the haunting eyes of his former professor. Draco had wanted nothing to do with him, and besides, in the beginning Andromeda never really let go of the baby. He was her lifeline for a long time, the only thing keeping her tethered. 

Eventually, however, the baby took an interest in Draco. He’d grab at him when he was close enough, or crawl into Draco’s lap and look up at him expectedly. Andromeda would chuckle and tell him how cute it all was. Draco hadn’t understood it, but he supposed something that couldn’t talk yet didn’t know that he was an utter waste of space, that he wasn’t worth it. Babies knew nothing, really, and he’d found that refreshing. Draco began taking care of Edward, changing his diapers when Andromeda needed the help, or feeding him, or watching him when she’d left for groceries. 

Without warning, Teddy found a place in Draco’s heart, the part that perhaps was still, somehow, untarnished and not crippled and grey. He’d smile gummily at Draco, and the tuft of his hair would grow white, and his nose would pinch up, and Draco would just, cry. He’d cry, and cry, and hold the baby to his chest and revel in it. Addicted with being loved without question, without preconceptions, by something new and untouched, by something beautiful. Teddy was beautiful. The first beautiful thing that Draco ever had any claim to. 

Teddy inspired it all. Drove him out of bed in the morning, drove him to look at himself and will himself to go on. To be better. To be something Draco never had, because the thought of all that ugliness, all that desolation that Draco was raised amongst, touching Teddy, defiling him, made Draco sick. Made him shudder and heave. 

It could be said, perhaps, that in those early days Draco had become codependent with the boy. If there was no Teddy, there wouldn’t have been a Draco. Same went for Andromeda, surely. 

However, as time went on, the fervent urge to be better, do better, protect Teddy from all the bad, became something Draco wanted to do for himself, too. If only so he could get out of bed, and face his reflection in the mirror without wanting to shatter it. So as to eat enough meals, and drink enough water, and accept that air conditioning was actually quite wonderful. 

He’s still got so much work to do, and it's still in thanks to the little boy, but Draco isn’t a shell anymore. He breathes, and he works, and he lives, and he  _ wants.  _

Despite it all, despite all the writhing, venomous snakes in his belly, he wants Potter. Draco wants Potter's glowing, russet skin beneath his palms, he wants the maroon plush of his lips on his own thin, pink ones. He wants to break Potter open and crawl inside, to soak up his light and  _ shine. _

  
  


\--

"Don't you just look a proper mess." 

Pansy Parkinson isn't even halfway out of the fireplace when she says it, sharp, black eyes roaming over Malfoy's limp frame. He knows he looks a fright, dark rings around his eyes and his hair a doxie nest. 

Pansy looks divine, as usual. Her makeup perfectly executed, if faded from the day, lips a softening plum, the edges turning down with concern. Her hair is much longer than their school days, now, and recovered from the singed, greasy mess it had been in the War. Its sleek, and black as tar, bumped in at the ends. Her clothes are simple, however; it seems he caught her in her leisure. 

Most of all, the sight of her is the comfort and stability he's been craving from the moment he apparated from Grimmauld Place. He sags into the plush green of his Aunt's couch, sighing with defeat as his best friend kicks off her slippers and takes a place beside him.

"Yes, well, sodding Potter's always sent me round the twist." He admits darkly, glaring at the barren fireplace. He grabs his wand from where it's rolled between the cushions and lights a fire. This house gets so cold. It misses Andromeda nearly as much as Draco does. 

"Yes, but you haven't exactly had the best go of it lately, have you?" She says softly, grabbing his spare hand and pressing into the bones gently with her thumb. It's always done well to ground Draco, that. It reminds him that at the end of the day, they're all the same inside, aren't they? Piles of bone and viscera and so much blood. The irony of the statement is not lost on him. "I'm sorry I haven't come earlier. It's hard to get away from  _ eomeoni _ ." 

Draco understands, of course. She's living on the other side of the continent with her mother now, at their estate in Jeju-do. He visits when he can, not only for Pansy and her well-meaning, tutting mother who always does well to stuff him full of Korean delicacies each time, but for the rolling green hills and crystalline waters. The place is a salve on the mind, beautiful and reserved, sequestered from the clogged, bustling cities the rest of the Southernmost country is known for. Draco doesn't blame the remaining Parkinson's for fleeing Britain one bit. Not when the Korean mountainside is such a perfect place to heal. 

"Think nothing of it." He tells her, dropping his wand and running his hand down his face. He's so tired. Exhausted by his ever present pension for disaster, for internal implosion. He can't remember a time when his chest didn't feel as though it were caving in. Potter has complicated things because, now, it's shifting, and the valley in his soul is turning inside out. 

"Well, out with it then. Don't try to evade me, Draco Lucius. I didn't internationally floo here to bear witness to your verbal constipation." She snorts, pressing a little too hard into his hand, shifting his metacarpal. 

"Potter kissed me." He says quietly, too worn out, still too shocked, to evade the truth. It feels good to lay it bare, unfurl it into the open and stare at it as if it's some obscene rug. He turns his head to Pansy, mouth in a grim line. Pansy, to her credit, has only piqued a brow, her eyes cutting as they rake over his face, filling in the blanks. 

"Well, it's about time, isn't it?" She finally says, boxing Draco's ear. His hand flies up to shield himself, appalled, and a little narked off. 

"What the hell is wrong with you?" He hisses, rubbing his ear and glaring at her. It all does well to make Draco feel ridiculous. Pansy's always had a knack for pulling Draco from his melodramatic fits and spelling out the humanity in his perils. 

"So your childhood crush has kissed you. It isn't as if you haven't wanted this for years, or that you aren't raising a sodding child together. Get a grip, Draco, honestly. Are you going to wither up and  _ die _ because a fit man kissed you?  _ Ei _ !" Pansy exclaims, her exasperation colorful and warming. Draco laughs a little, a small puff of breath. 

When one puts it like that, drills it into his head with expletives and Korean exclamations, familiar to him and comforting as they are, it narrows down simply onto the head of a pin. 

He has wanted this for years, he came to the same conclusion just this morning. Having someone else think the same is reassuring as it is frightening. It's what he'd wanted really, for Pansy to tell him that which he already knew, to help reiterate the unacceptable. 

What that means for Draco now, he doesn't know, not when Potter's reasons for kissing him remain rather unclear. 

"It was strange, though, the kiss I mean." Draco admits, standing up and pacing in front of the fire. "He only did it because Teddy wanted him to, you see." 

Pansy hums, flicking her wand and summoning a bottle of wine and the subsequent glasses. It's one of Andromeda's vintages, but he knows she wouldn't mind, wherever she is. 

"Explain." She demands, curiosity sharpening the word. Draco pauses, and stares at his workspace. He'd set it up in front of the bay window, which gave a spectacular view of the surrounding Dartmoor. His cauldron is barren now, a slew of vials in an open case, ready to be sent on their way. It'd been his few hours of thoughtless solace today, his work, the brackish, grey sunlight calming and even somewhat rejuvenating. 

"Well, we'd had a moment, talking of...rather darker things. The war." He chokes a bit on it, still incredibly uncomfortable speaking of it at all, even in passing. It was different, somehow, with Potter. That much has proved clear. "And, Teddy saw that we'd been affected by it, saw Potter take my hand in comfort, a fleeting, idiotic sentiment." 

Draco shakes his head, remembering his irritation, his remorse. He hated the way Potter ripped him open and saw all his tainted, broken viscera. 

"And? How did that become Teddy making you kiss?" Pansy snorts, hefting herself up with an annoyed grunt and handing him a generous glass of aromatic, purple wine. 

"I think it's something he sees Granger and Weasel do, as a couple, you know, that sort of thing. Horrible influence, mind." Draco preambles, and Pansy nods, catching on quickly. 

"So, naturally, he thought the moment should end with a kiss." She hums, amused now, and Draco glares at her. 

"Yes, exactly, and he started throwing one of his fits, which sent me into one of my own; you know." Pansy grabs his hand, worry now cinching her brow. She does know, she's bare witness to quite a lot of them by now. 

"Are you alright, then?" She asks, searching his expression. She seems satisfied to have found nothing of immediate concern and she sneaks another sip of the wine. 

"Yes, it ended as soon as it started; that's when Potter kissed me. I suppose he thought that was an effective way to get us both to stop." Draco chuckles mercilessly, and looks back into the fire, the glass of wine heavy in his palm. The thought, the  _ memory _ , of Potter's lips on his own makes him shudder. 

"That is a bit messy, isn't it? Awkward, too." Pansy punctuates, patting Draco on the shoulder and leaving him to plop back onto the couch. "Well, you can't ignore him or play your usual, shitty little games, what with Edward and all. Just, pretend it never happened, I suppose." 

Draco nods. But of course that's what he'll do, whether Draco wants Harry with an inexplicable and confounding passion or not, he will ignore it. It's for the best, it's for Teddy's welfare, most of all. It would not do well to have the boy floundering in oppressive awkwardness for the rest of his life should Draco spill out his secrets to Potter and be rejected. 

Now, if only Potter keeps his mouth shut just the same. 

Surely, it shouldn't be a problem. However, he is a Gryffindor, and rather loud-mouthed at that, always has been, the twat. 

Draco takes a rather large drink of wine, and prays to whatever deity is still listening that one day, just for one moment, he'll know peace


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, lmao, i know i'm updating this slowly, but to be fair, i used to be incapable of finishing fucking anything even oneshots so this fic is kind of a big deal to me, like, if i can finish this, i can write a novel, and i reallllly want to write a novel lmao 
> 
> anyway!!! here you go! also, i've changed my name, I'm trans and Audge was my temporary name before i decided so im signing off of my notes for the first time with my real name!! hope you enjoy guys! 
> 
> XOXO - Richie

"Oh, hello." 

Draco blinks, surprised, his nerves settling back a bit at the sight of Luna Lovegood at the door of Grimmauld Place. He hasn't seen her in ages, probably not since the war. She's much healthier now, her olive skin a wash in the setting sunlight, her pale hair cut shorter than he's ever seen it. It's charming, and looks rather soft. 

"Draco. How are you? Alright, I hope." She says gently, smiling up at him. Her eyes are as wide and blue as ever, always so knowing and the smallest bit clouded. 

"Yes, I'm fine. You?" He responds, twisting his hands into his scarf and retreating from the eye contact. Luna Lovegood is a lovely person, and he’d found out by sneaking down into the Manor’s dungeons to slip her food. That isn’t the most healthy of ways to get to know someone, and that shame eats Draco alive. 

“I’m very well.” Luna coos, her voice genuine and kind. Draco spares her another look, and can’t help but relax. Her body language is open, lax. She's at ease, she evidently doesn't fear him, nor hates him, whether she should or not. 

"I'm here to pick up Ted-, I'm here to pick up Edward." Draco coughs, subtly pointing over her shoulder, into the shadowed view of Grimmauld Place. He hopes vehemently that Luna will simply go inside and retrieve the boy, sparring Draco the shame and humiliation the inside of that damned house promises him. 

"He's a lovely boy." She hums, turning around and disappearing into the flat. Draco looks to the sky, and curses the magnitude of idiotic choices that's led him to this exact moment. 

"Luna." He calls, fumbling defeated after her. He follows the sound of voices, his racing heartbeat nearly drowning them out. They lead him to a sitting room, which is warm and opalescent, a fire in the grate. It smells of cinnamon and cream. 

His eyes are drawn like a magnet first to Potter, of course. He's sitting in a well-loved chair, orange and plush, ragged in some places. His posture goes from eased to strung, his long, spidery limbs locking up. He’s beautiful as ever, his tawny skin flush, his eyes large, round, and impossibly green. His hair today, curly and haphazard as usual, is pulled back behind a black bandanna. His mouth is set in a terse line, magenta lips thinning into the shape. 

“Well, look what the kneazle’s dragged in.” 

Draco’s eyes flick away from Harry as quickly as they’d strayed to him, and fall instead on Girl Weasley. Ginny Weasley, he mentally corrects. She’s a person, not an afterthought. 

She looks rather different from the lanky girl he’d bullied at Hogwarts; she’s settled into her own skin, grown into it. She’s tall and broad shouldered like the rest of her family, her head shaved to a fuzzy red fade, her protruding ears heavy with glistening metal. She’s obviously disgusted at the sight of him, her muscled arms crossed defensively over her chest. 

“Does that mean I’m the kneazle, my love?” Luna laughs airily, gliding over to Ginny, who softens and wraps a protective arm around the slighter woman.

Draco gapes for a moment, before saying, “There’s a minge joke in there.”

The room is quiet for a moment, within which Draco wishes quite vehemently that his tongue could fizzle up and dissolve so he never spoke again, until suddenly Ginny guffaws. 

“Did you-,” Ginny wheezes, doubling over and displacing Luna, who is giggling now, as well. Even Harry is grinning, and Draco lets loose a coveted, relieved breath. “-just make a gay joke?”

“It’s not like that, I mean no disrespect, of course, in fact I-,” Draco blushes furiously, willingly meeting Ginny’s mirthy brown eyes so he doesn’t have to meet Harry’s. “I’m a poof myself. I apologize for being inappropriate, it’s absolutely unacceptable.”

This only does well to make Weasley laugh harder, completely letting go of Luna, who walks over to Draco and slips her arm in his. He starts, hands gripping his side bag and his gaze meeting his brogues. 

“Don’t be sorry, Draco. It was funny. Thank you for sharing that with us.” Luna says, patting his arm, her side pressing into his own, thawing him out of his mortification. 

“Now, that is the first thing that’s come out of your mouth that’s made sense.” Weasley huffs, coming down from her laughter and falling into the couch beside Potter’s chair. “Of course you are. I should have known.” She shakes her head, and rubs the place beside her. 

Luna takes her cue, and leaves Draco to sit beside her ginger counterpart. She, in turn, gestures to the cushion beside her now, and Draco slowly walks over and tentatively sits.

“I don’t follow.” Draco admits, finally looking at Harry again, who still hasn’t uttered a single word since Draco arrived. Potter is looking at him, unabashedly, his expression one of shock. 

Weasley grunts and waves her arm, sparing Draco a flash of what seems to be a tattoo on the inside of her wrist. He thinks it might be an ear?

“It doesn’t matter now. I can tell you’ve changed, Malfoy; you practically browned your knickers at the sight of me and made a joke about munching muff. Relax.” She says with a final chuckle.

Draco can’t hide his smile in time, he’s sure everyone sees it. Regardless of all the awkwardness, at least this means he isn’t alone with Potter, isn’t alone with the heady memory of what happened the last time he was here. He’s doubtlessly grateful for Luna and her Weasley. The thought makes him reel. 

Speaking of his reason for being here, “Where’s Edward?”

“He’s in his room.” 

Draco and Potter meet each other’s eyes. He’s posed on the edge of his chair now, his cup of tea discarded on the coffee table between them all. He looks contrite, but certain of what he’s just said, and Draco’s heart lurches. 

“He’s his own room here?” he stutters, looking at the ceiling as if it would turn to glass and show him where Teddy is.

“Yeah. Hasn’t he one at yours?” he responds, confused. Draco stands, all at once exhausted, and very much wanting to see his cousin. He’s missed him terribly, and he really wants to leave. This visit hasn’t been more than ten minutes, and it’s been excruciatingly overwhelming.

“Yes, he has. May I see him?” Draco asks, fisting his hands into his robe pockets. Potter nods, and stands with a short gesture towards the stairs. Draco spares a parting glance at Luna and Ginny, who are watching the both of them with loaded expressions. It’s highly unsettling. Draco hates his life. 

“It was nice to see you both. You two, together, it’s lovely, I’m very happy for you.” he says dismissively, turning and briskly walking towards the stairs without a backwards glance. 

As he mounts the wooden steps, he hears a second set of footprints behind him. He glances over his shoulders, sees Potter following closely behind him. Draco can almost feel his body heat. He shudders. 

“It’s the first floor, second door on the left.” Potter says quietly, and Draco nods. Once he’s reached the landing, he turns round, all at once quite livid at the realization at just exactly what this implies. 

“Have you been letting him go up and down these stairs on his own?” he demands of Potter, who is much closer than Draco intended for him to be. For the life of him, however, he can not dismantle the distance. He smells lovely, of tea and the cinnamon from earlier, and something distinctive. Something that reminds Draco of light. Despite this, Draco is furious. Edward’s safety is priority, and as far as he’s concerned, Potter has compromised this. 

“No, Draco.” Harry sighs, palming his forehead and shaking his head. “Merlin, of course not. I carry him up and down. He knows he’s not allowed to do it himself, and if he tried, Kreacher would stop him.” 

Draco deflates, awash with shame. He bites his lip, eyes darting from one of Potter’s to the other. They flutter briefly over his lips, and back up again, and Potter opens his mouth to say something, face terse. 

“ _ Monlutin! _ ” 

Draco turns, a grin breaking out across his face. The muscles strain, unused to the movement, but always familiar to Edward. The sight of the little boy fills Draco all at once with relief and delight, making every other thought dissipate. It seems over the weekend he’s grown, which is impossible of course, but nevertheless, it always seems that way when they’re apart. 

“ _ Monloup, tu m’as manqué.” _ he breathes, and catches the boy as he flies into his arms. He sweeps him into an embrace, comforted by the knowledge that this, having Edward in his arms, is a happiness he can always rely on.

“ _ Tu es parti et n’a pas dit que je t’aime!” _ he giggles, burrowing his head beneath Draco’s chin and hugging his neck as tightly as any child his age can. 

“I’m so sorry, of course I love you. I’ll never do that again.” He hums, rocking the boy back and forth, catching Potter’s eyes over Edward’s shoulder. He looks, unmistakably fond. Gaze soft, one of his hands outstretched almost as if he wants to join the moment. 

Edward pulls back and splays his tiny, sticky hand over Draco’s cheek. His eyes are wide and an eerily familiar green, his hair shoulder chin length and pale. It makes Draco’s stomach hurt, when Edward does this. 

"You don't tell Harry 'love you', too." Teddy huffs, searching Draco's gaze accusingly, before pointing to the aforementioned. Draco closes his eyes for a moment, face heating, before turning to see Potter better. 

He looks amused, almost as if he were exhausted from trying to be anything but. He offers Draco a silent shrug and Draco just rolls his eyes.

“No, I don’t.” Draco says simply. “Are you ready to go home?” 

Teddy nods enthusiastically, wiggling in Draco’s arms until he is forced to set him down. He streaks off into his room, sending the hallway into some kind of suffocating vacuum. Draco swallows so hard it’s audible, and he turns to Potter. 

Potter is scratching the back of his head, his other hand in the pocket of his jeans, arm tense and scattered with thick veins that look purple beneath his brown skin. 

“Draco, about last time-,” he begins to say, eyes floating everywhere but Draco’s face, but Draco holds up his hand and stops the other man. 

His chest heaves, and he feels all the blood in his body roar in his ears. 

“Don’t. We were comforting Teddy.” he hisses, the snake in his gut snapping, squirming in his guts, itching to strike. Ready to douse his tongue with venom and bite. Draco crushes it down with the force of a breath, tucks his tongue behind his teeth. He need not say any more than that. He will not allow his fear, his longing, make him spit vile. Draco is not that man anymore. 

A series of emotions play out across Potter’s face, all too quick to give anything away, before he nods once. He takes a heady breath of his own, keeps his head down for a moment, all raven curls that tumble against gravity. Draco wants nothing more in that moment than to touch it. To gather it in his palms, to feel if it's soft as it looks, to pull it gently up and reveal Potter’s face again. The long, gaunt angles of it, the teardrop magenta of his lips, to feel them again against his own. 

But that will never happen. Not again. Teddy is at stake, and that is the most important thing in Draco’s life that he has ever and will forever abide by. After all, Teddy is, by all intents and purposes and tragedies, his son. 

Draco sighs. 

Their son. 

Potter’s head comes up again, and his face is stony. Eyes as hard and cutting as raw emeralds, exposed in terracotta earth. “You’re right, but if I had to, for Teddy, I’d do it again.”

The words pierce Draco in the way he’d imagined his choked insults would cut Potter. It’s a sharp feeling, hollowing into his chest, bright and hot, and the snake in his belly screams and burns. 

“As would I.” Draco says softly, before he can stop himself. Some things never change. Sometimes, he won’t be able to stop it, won’t be able to kill his words before they escape. Potter has always found a way to bring them out. Claw at them and force them past his lips. 

The two of them stare at each other in silence. Both of them, stewing in the scalding potion of their utterances. Unsure of what else to say, what else to do. So, they stare, and they wait. 

“Ready!” Teddy yells, tripping out of his room with a toothy grin, bright eyed. He attaches himself to Draco’s leg, hiking up his robe and disappearing beneath it. It’s a fond habit of his, to lose himself in the silky black, huddling close to the back of Draco’s knees. Hiding, plotting, a mischievous thing.

Draco smirks at Potter, before throwing his hands up in the air dramatically and putting on an affronted exclamation. “Where did Edward go? Didn’t I just hear him, Potter?”

Potter chuckles, a melodic thing, water over stone, before loping closer and stomping with extra force. 

“I heard him too! Where on Earth could he have gone! He was just here, wasn’t he, Malfoy?” he says, fake concern in his voice, fighting against an obvious amount of mirth. Draco hides a chuckle behind his fist and he turns around in one great movement. He hears Teddy giggle and shuffle after him, still clinging to his slacks. The levity, the innocence of the moment, makes Draco’s chest grow light again, the snake to die, his lips to stretch over his teeth. 

Potter follows after him, ducking through Draco’s circling arms, clomping his large, ridiculous feet, laughing. 

“Whatever will we do without him, Potter?” Draco asks, smiling at Potter, who puts a finger to his lips and goes very quiet. His eyes sparkle, no longer hard, but liquid, like lake water through a dungeon window. Draco’s heart skips a beat and for a bit, he doesn’t care. He’s tired of caring. He just wants to laugh, like this, and love his son, like this, and trust in Edward’s other guardian, like this. 

Draco nods, and holds still as Potter approaches, feeling him grow closer, experiencing the heat of him, the smell of him. Then, Potter lunges at his legs, grabbing Teddy through his robes, bringing him up, bodily moving Draco as he does. The robes tangle around Teddy’s limbs, Potter’s arms, twist Draco around in a flurry, until the three of them are knotted together. Teddy laughs with abandon, head now only partially covered with the black of Draco’s robe, eyes closed and full of happy tears. He clings to Potter’s chest, his arms, his back to Draco’s. Draco is caught in his robe, pulled closer to Potter than he ever has been, Teddy squished between them. 

Draco is still grinning, Teddy’s laughter infectious as he dissolves into his own, as Potter does, too. They stand there, the three of them, once so very separate, brought together only by death, by growing up, by a kiss in a basement, but ultimately together now. 

He hopes, with a kiss against Teddy’s temple, that no matter how, it stays that way. 


End file.
